


It's A Lot (Like Coming Home)

by puckinghell



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, contract talks, just some boys dealing with their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 15:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckinghell/pseuds/puckinghell
Summary: “He’ll sort it out, otherwise I’ll drive to Minnesota to pick him up myself,” Petey says in a presser, and Brock jumps on the first plane to Vancouver.Alternatively, Brock has to deal with his feelings, and Petey is just trying to get his boy home.





	It's A Lot (Like Coming Home)

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is like 2 months too late, let me live
> 
> Title from It's a Lot Like Coming Home by Tim McGraw. 
> 
> No warnings this is literally just pure fluff.

“He’ll sort it out, otherwise I’ll drive to Minnesota to pick him up myself,” Petey says in a presser, and Brock jumps on the first plane to Vancouver.

It’s arguably a bad idea. And he’s not completely sure _why _he does it; it’s almost like his body acts without his mind catching up, until he’s suddenly sitting on a plane and an air hostess is asking him if he wants coffee or tea.

“Coffee,” he says, because he hasn’t slept in approximately 24 hours and he probably won’t sleep for another 12 at least, and then he puts in his headphones and stares out the window.

Brock would say he’s a pretty chill guy. He doesn’t worry about a lot, always assumes things will work themselves out.

“It’s fine,” he told Petey over the phone a few weeks ago, “my agent is on it. It’ll work itself out.”

But now training camp has begun and nothing has worked out for him.

It’s a little like summer was doomed from the start.

“We’ll get there next time,” Bo had said to him, bumping him in the shoulder, at locker cleanout day.

“Which means _this _time we can mope and get drunk,” Troy had replied, and Jake had thrown a shoe at his head.

Petey hadn’t said anything. He’d just cleaned out his stall, quietly and meticulously, and it had reminded Brock of the first few weeks he’d been in Vancouver. Back when he hadn’t come out of his shell yet, when getting him to smile had been a real accomplishment.

It had been a lot, to deal with, and something heavy had curled in the pit of Brock’s stomach and it didn’t leave.

Not even in the lake house. The lake house had always been Brock’s reprieve, always been his sanctuary; nowhere else had he felt as content, as much at home, as when he’s sitting on the porch there, Coolie by his side, the sun sinking into the lake. This year, though, there had been something nagging at the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite push down: like something was missing. Like he’d forgotten something in Vancouver, and he had to go back to find it.

The only time when that feeling had allowed itself to be ignored, forgotten even, is when he’d talked to Petey on the phone. There hadn’t been a lot of phone calls: Petey was in Sweden, during most of the summer, and time differences were difficult, especially when they were both busy with family and training.

There had been one phone call after the Calder, where Petey had sounded like he couldn’t believe his life, and Brock had been bursting with pride, and another phone call when Petey was happy and tipsy after a night out with his friends in Sweden, and he’d mumbled something about how it would’ve been even more fun if Brock had been there. Brock tries not to think about that, too much.

They’d texted a bit, too, but it wasn’t the same.

And then Petey had started to ignore him.

_Whats going on why wont you answer __L _Brock had asked, and the reply had come almost immediately.

_I’ll answer when you come home_

Home. Brock wasn’t even really sure where that was, anymore.

Minnesota used to be home, and it still is, most of the time. Like when he’s watching football with his dad, or his mom is telling him to do his laundry, or his brother and sister are making fun of him. It’s home when he’s hanging out with old friends, fishing or making a campfire like they always used to.

But Vancouver felt like home too, sometimes. Only when he’s trying to outskate Jake and they bump into each other against the boards. Or when he’s at Bo’s dinner table chirping him for his lack of cooking ability. When it’s late at night and him and Troy are walking the dogs, the silence comfortable between them. When he’s in his stall and Petey is sitting close enough that their thighs are pressed together, and he can feel Petey’s body shake as he laughs. Or when Petey is watching House MD and pretending he finds it annoying when Brock tries to guess what’s gonna happen next. Only when he’s on the plane and Petey is quietly falling asleep next to him, his body sagging into Brock’s side more and more with each exhale of breath.

A lot of Vancouver being home has to do with his team, Brock realizes.

Maybe that’s why something inside of him is being eaten alive, every second that he’s not signed to that particular team. It feels like he’s waiting to be part of his own family again. Like he’s not part of _anything_, right now.

What if they don’t miss him?

Brock leans his head against the head rest of the airplane seat and closes his eyes. He pretends it’s Petey, next to him, not the random woman who keeps typing on her laptop too loud. He pictures the way Petey’s breath will even out as he falls asleep, the way he’ll sink deeper into his seat and eventually into Brock’s side, the way his head will start bopping and then come to rest on Brock’s shoulder.

Maybe he can get a few hours of sleep, after all.

\---

He should’ve probably told the cab driver his own address, but somehow, he ends up telling him Petey’s.

It’s just. Everything in Vancouver seems to revolves around Petey, somehow. And now that he’s here, Brock really only wants to go one place.

Wherever Petey is.

He’s not quite sure, about what he feels for Petey. He knows they’re good friends. He knows he was Petey’s first real friend, in Vancouver, after he kinda took him under his wing when he first got here. Maybe - and he doesn’t know this for sure, but he hopes – he’s even Petey’s best friend in Vancouver.

The first time he got a hint that maybe that’s not all it is, was when his parents came to Vancouver to visit last year.

They came to see him after the game, and Petey had walked past, smiled at them.

His mom had turned to him with that knowing smile, the one that only mothers can truly pull off, and said: “So that’s him, huh?”

“That’s Petey,” Brock had said, “my linemate.”

She’d raised one eyebrow. “Sure, honey,” she’d said, voice silk like honey and dripping with _don’t think you’re fooling me_, and that’s when Brock started thinking.

_Was _that all Petey is to him? What does he feel for Petey?

Sometimes, he watches as Petey puts a perfect pass onto someone’s tape – usually his – and sets up a perfect goal, and he feels admiration.

Sometimes, he listens as Petey drawls a sarcastic comment at one of his teammates, and he feels strangely proud.

Sometimes, he listens to Petey explain a play, animated on the bench, and he feels in awe.

Sometimes, he feels Petey bump a shoulder into his, and he feels calmth wash over him like a blanket.

Sometimes he watches as Petey laughs with Quinn, and he feels envy, that he shoves down as far as it can go.

Sometimes he listens to Petey stumble through an interview in broken English, and he feels sympathy, and a protectiveness that makes him want to throw himself between Petey and the reporter, if only to get that frustrated look off Petey’s face.

Sometimes he watches Petey dressed up in his suit and he feels attraction – he’s not blind.

Sometimes he feels Petey hover around him when he’s in a bad mood, as if he’s unwilling to leave Brock to suffer alone, and he feels fondness.

And sometimes he just _feels _Petey, there with him, existing, and he feels it all at once.

He’s pretty sure that’s what love feels like.

He gets out of the cab and walks into Petey’s apartment building.

\---

Brock doesn’t know what he expected when Petey opened the door, but it was more than one raised eyebrow and a drawled: “You sign yet?”

“Uh, no,” he stutters, because he hasn’t, and Petey sighs. He doesn’t say anything more, but he does take a step back and open the door further, which Brock takes as a sign to come in.

Petey doesn’t ask what he’s doing here, and maybe that’s for the best, because suddenly Brock feels like he can’t breathe. It’s like the stupidity of what he’s done hits him, now that he’s walking into Petey’s apartment with nothing more than the one bag he packed a few hours earlier.

Everything is still in Minnesota. But he’s here.

Petey walks into the kitchen, and Brock follows him because what else is he supposed to do? He feels foreign, like he doesn’t belong here, and he’s never felt like that before in Petey’s apartment.

Petey’s apartment has always felt a little like home, the same way Vancouver has: like it’s almost his home, if he just lets it be.

“You want one?” Petey asks, holding out a Gatorade, and Brock takes it. He doesn’t know if he really wants it but he wants to hold something, so he has something to do with his hands. Petey narrows his eyes as they trail down Brock’s body; as if they’re looking for something. Clearly, he can’t find it, because his gaze snaps up to Brock’s face and then something crumbles in his resolve.

“You’re here,” Petey says, almost as if he can’t believe it.

“Uh, yeah,” Brock says, because he’s eloquent as fuck, and then suddenly Petey leaps forward and they’re hugging.

Petey’s arms are tight around his body and Brock can feel his heart beat in his chest, and the tension that’s been in Brock’s shoulders since locker clean out day suddenly ebs away.

Then Petey steps back and starts talking about Swedish things that are a little weird, that he only noticed this summer because he’d been in Canada for so long.

They talk for hours with the TV on for background noise, order Chinese and eat only half of it, Petey’s legs end up tangled with Brock’s as they share his way-too- small couch, and he never asks Brock what he’s doing here.

Maybe he can tell that Brock doesn’t really have an answer for that.

\---

The next morning Brock wakes up in Petey’s spare room with a massive headache.

They didn’t even have any beer, so that can’t be it; it’s probably all the words unspoken, that are weighing on Brock’s concious. He allows himself to roll over and hug the duvet, for a few minutes, inhaling deeply and telling himself it’s not because the duvet smells like Petey’s laundry detergent.

Finally, he drags himself out of bed. Petey is in the kitchen, making breakfast and humming to himself.

He spots Brock as soon as he comes in. “Goodmorning,” he smiles. “Coffee is there.” He nods his head towards the coffee maker and Brock makes himself a cup, then sits at the counter. Petey doesn’t talk, probably because he knows Brock doesn’t really _do _talking before his first coffee of the day, simply focuses on breakfast, and Brock allows himself to watch.

Petey has gained some muscle over the summer, and his always-pale skin is a little less pale thanks to the Swedish sun. His hair seems to have lightened; it’s almost white, now, and the watery Vancouver sun beams off it like a spotlight.

“You’re staring,” Petey tuts, and he turns. “Want a pancake?”

Brock does want a pancake, and they eat breakfast in silence. It’s not until Brock’s cleaned the plates – he’s a good guest, mom – that Petey takes a deep breath, and says:

“Are you ever gonna tell me why you’re here?”

And Brock freezes. He could dodge the question, say he needed to get some stuff done before he – inevitably – signs here, but he knows that’s not what Petey means.

Petey means why is he _here_, in his house, and why is he not leaving.

He could also tell the truth. But _because I miss you, and because the only person I wanna talk to, the only person I wanna see when I wake up, is you_ is probably too honest an answer between two friends, two linemates, so he can’t really do that either.

Instead, he tells the truth that says nothing at all.

“Maybe one day.”

Petey’s face falls ever so slightly; you wouldn’t even notice it, if you didn’t know him, because his face is usually kinda flat and stoic, but Brock does know him, and he can see the slight down curve of his lips, the way his eyes flicker to the floor.

But Petey knows Brock, too, knows that pushing him won’t help, and so he shrugs.

“Okay. I gotta get ready for practice.”

_Practice_. Something squeezes in Brock’s gut; he should be getting ready, too, except he doesn’t have to, because he’s not part of the team.

Petey turns around to leave and then Brock does something awfully stupid: he opens his mouth.

“Can I stay here?”

The words tumble out before he can catch them, and he doesn’t miss the sharp inhale of breath Petey takes.

“As long as you want to,” Petey says then, and he sounds so truthful, so fond, that Brock nearly tells him everything.

He doesn’t, though. He lets Petey go to practice and he mopes and watches MasterChef all day, wondering if his team misses him, and if they’re still his team at all.

\---

Petey comes home that night with take out food.

“That’s two days in a row, bud,” Brock tells him off. “Trainers aren’t gonna be happy with you.”

Petey glares at him. “At least I’m _at _training,” he scoffs, and Brock feels a little like a scolded kid, so he shuts up.

It’s not until later, when they’ve had dinner and are sitting on the couch playing online CoD with Jake and Troy, that Petey nudges Brock’s thigh with his toes.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m sorry if that was really mean, what I said about me being at training.”

His eyes are still glued to the screen but the tips of his ears are a little red and Brock can tell he’s genuinely remorseful.

“It’s fine,” he says, “it’s not like it’s not true.”

On the screen, he gets killed by some random dude, and he drops his controller in his lap.

“It’s not like,” he starts, and he pauses when Petey kills the guy who killed him, “it’s not like I don’t wanna be there, you know?”

He hates how thin his voice sounds, hates that he can’t hide how much this is affecting him.

“And we all want you to be there,” says Petey easily, and Brock wonders if he can look straight through Brock, can look at him with those piercing blue eyes and see into the deepest darkest parts of his soul, where he keeps all his bottled up feelings, all his secrets.

“I want you there,” Petey says then, his voice a bit softer. He gets killed and the TV goes black.

Petey lets the controller fall onto the floor, turns to Brock completely then. His face is blank as he says, finally, after over 24 hours: “Why are you here, Brock?”

And maybe it’s because Brock can’t remember the last time he’s felt as content as he felt tonight, playing video games with Petey’s toes pressed under his legs, but he blurts out:

“Because I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Petey is quiet, and so is the apartment. Brock is suddenly more aware of it then he was before, and he wishes the game was still going on, the noises distracting him from feeling everything he’s feeling.

“Here, in Vancouver?” Petey asks, finally, after what seems to be an eternity. “Or here, on my couch?”

It doesn’t technically have to be Petey’s couch, Brock thinks, it could be anywhere, really, anywhere in the world.

Anywhere in the world, as long as Petey is beside him.

It hits him then, what was wrong all summer, why he couldn’t just feel at ease.

And he shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t put it all out there, but Petey is staring at him with this knowing look in his eyes, as if he already understands, as if Brock was never hiding it very well.

“With you,” Brock says, and his throat seems to close up around the words. He lets his eyes fall to his hands, fixes them on the way his fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt.

“You’re an idiot.” Petey’s voice sounds… soft, but his words aren’t, and Brock cowers into himself, wonders if he just messed up everything, if maybe he should just tell his agent not to bother with the contract, to find him another team instead.

But then thin, soft fingers curl around his own, and he allows himself to look up. Petey is closer than Brock expected him to be, his eyes wide and honest as they lock with his.

And then he’s kissing Brock. Brock doesn’t know exactly how it happened, or when it happened, but suddenly Petey is right there and his lips are soft but intendly pressed against his own, and one of his hands is on Petey’s waist, the other linked with Petey’s hand.

During locker clean out day, something heavy curled in the pit of Brock’s stomach.

Right now, it uncurls, and everything feels light.

\--- 

Hours later, they’re lying in Petey’s bed, naked limbs tangled in the sheets, Petey’s long body curled around Brock’s so that they’re touching everywhere. An hour or so earlier, Brock’s agent texted that his contract will most likely be signed tomorrow.

“Would you really have come to Minnesota, if I hadn’t signed?” Brock whispers into Petey’s hair.

Petey chuckles and Brock can feels it in his whole body.

“I would’ve wanted to,” he admits. “Not to be dramatic but I don’t want to play a game where you don’t play on my wing.”

“Not dramatic at all,” Brock teases, and he whines when Petey pinches his thigh.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, “you’ve been in Vancouver for two days and you haven’t even left my apartment yet.”

“You want me to?” Brock is joking but if Petey said yes, he might actually die. Luckily, Petey’s arms simply tighten around Brock’s body.

“Never,” he mumbles. “But I want you to shut up so I can sleep. _Some _of us had a bag skate today, you know.”

Brock turns his head slightly, just so he can press a kiss to Petey’s forehead, and Petey hums contently.

“Hey, Brock?”

“Hmm?”

“Welcome home.”

Brock smiles, and Petey kisses his collar bone, and it’s a lot like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> @puckinghell on tumblr for chats and bad takes!


End file.
